River Suite

RIVER SUITE

Books by the author: river suite, In the dark - poets & publishing, Cover Makes a Set Chapbooks: Tribeca, Danger Falling Ice (editor), Help, eurotrip, Stones of My Flesh Apathy, may contain and/or (editor), Rummaging for Rhinos Burnt Poems Served Hot (co-editor), Solstice, Synopsis In the Valky of the Shadow of Poets' Comer, aaaaaaab DEC 31 1988 (USA: Los Angeles), Future Now Past, & care electronic By(e) the River, Paper Bags, Reflections The Budget Guide to Getting Here Bourbon Street Poetry Workshop: Ecphore Installation Piece (editor) Journey Through Pink Clouds of Momentary Mentalities Anthologies (editor of): Crossroads Cant (editor), Shout and Speak Out Loud (co-editor) Ecphore '87 Poetry Anthology (co-editor) Anthologies (contributor to): Written in the Skin, River Readings 2, Open 24 Hours, Poetry Nation Strong Winds, Something About Sailors, Not to Rest in Silence Quebec Suite, An Invisible Accordion, Views (Finland) The Last Word, The Hawthorne Anthology The Windhorse Reader: Choice Poems of '93, Let the Earth Take Note Connexion XXII "An Exquisite Corpse" Wor(I)d Poem/Poema Mu(n)do (Portugal), River Readings

Loose Connections, The Northern Red Oak Anthology ABC No Rio Open Mike 1987 (USA) New York Alberta Poetry Yearbook 1985, The Toronto Collection

RIVER SUITE

POEMS BY

JOE BLADES

INSOMNIAC PRESS

Copyright © 1998 by Joe Blades. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from CANCOPY (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency), 6 Adelaide St. E., Suite 900, Toronto, Ontario, Canada, M5C 1H6. Edited by Mike O'Connor Copy edited by Jenny Anttila Designed by Mike O'Connor Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data Blades, Joe River suite Poems.

ISBN 1-895837-54-5 (bound) ISBN 1-895837-46-4 (pbk.) I. Title.

PS8553.L332R58 1998 PR9199.3.B52R58 1998

C911'.54

C98-931773-1

The Author gratefully acknowledges the support of a Creation Grant and a Professional Development Travel Grant, both from the New Brunswick Department of Municipalities, Culture and Housing, while writing and editing this book. The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council and the Ontario Arts Council. Printed and bound in Canada Insomniac Press, 393 Shaw Street, Toronto, Ontario, Canada, M6J 2X4 www. insomniacpress. com

This manuscript received First Honourable Mention in the Alfred G. Bailey Prize category of the Writers' Federation of New Brunswick 1997 Literary Competition. The "river suite" section was a finalist in the Tilden/Saturday Night/CBC Literary Competition (1996). The poem "chamcook" received Honourable Mention, poetry category, W.FN.B. 1998 Literary Competition.

Many of the poems in river suite have been published in anthologies, journals and chapbooks. I beside: Missing Jacket; II: Missing Jacket] III: Missing Jacket; IV touch: Missing Jacket; V summer solstice: The Gaspereau Review; VIII: The Backwater Review; IX: The Gaspereau Review; this afternoon i bled: Written in the Skin, rob mclennan, editor (Insomniac Press, 1998); the dogs: Rummaging for Rhinos (Pooka Press); dumping: The League of Canadian Poets Museletter; box of memories: Jones Av, The Cormorant, views (Finland), Cowgirlsinkilts broadside #1, The New Brunswick Reader; winter solstice has been published in a pOST hASTE cARD, The Harpweaver, Ashes, Paper & Beans (CHSR); night: The Last Word. Michael Holmes, editor (Insomniac Press, 1995); bogplant: In the Valley of the Shadow of Poets' Corner (above/ground press); prequel: Open 24 Hours (Broken Jaw Press, 1997); salamanca bayou: Open 24 Hours (Broken Jaw Press, 1997); beside the river: eloizes, poem (an above/ground press broadside), Open 24 Hours (Broken Jaw Press, 1997); first day of spring: stuff (a 5-copy artist book by Joe Blades) and Open 24 Hours (Broken Jaw Press, 1997); blind contour drawings: stuff (a 5-copy artist book by Joe Blades) and Open 24 Hours (Broken Jaw Press, 1997); new moon: stuff (a 5-copy artist book by Joe Blades) and Open 24 Hours (Broken Jaw Press, 1997); just thinking: The New Brunswick Reader and Danger Falling Ice, Joe Blades, editor (BS Poetry Society).

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"I walk in constant wondering of such magic as this that makes the earth go green" — Ted Plantos, "The Seasons are My Sacrements"

TABLE OF CONTENTS RIVER SUITE

i beside ii iii iv touch v summer solstice vi beside the river (again) vii viii.... ix x xi truths xii

13 15 16 17 19 20 22 24 25 26 27 29

THE TEST

waiting thru the test

33

clarified

36

this afternoon i bled re:call

37 45

ENDLESS RIVER

hartland engine breakdown the dogs dumping (s)and autumn equinox path of a harvest moon blue grapes box of memories remember 11th winter solstice night meeting and dispersing with intent bogplant prequel salamanca bayou

49 50 53 54 55 58 59 63 65 66 68 70 72 74 76 78

beside the river first day of spring blind contour drawings new moon just thinking

79 80 82 90 92

CHAMCOOK AND AFTER

chamcook wine stain the message at waterline upriver fight path bodhisattva blues

97 99 100 102 103 104 108

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RIVER SUITE

"When we're all passed over the rhythm of the river will remain" Jay Farr, of Son Volt, from "Live Free" on Trace

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River Suite — 13

I

BESIDE

blue in the face and gills twilight light like on a loch or that postcard in m & t deli of rhum and eigg a poet maudlin with memories of travel this river a bell's calendar scene: cooked salmon horizon sandwiched in indigo rainclouds and reflective night river in the month of now after telephones are given back to their receivers half of the conversation found themselves hanging about in after-rain twilight thinking of distance cormorants on night river thinking of being near distance so trying: never more than two telephones words on paper away confidence something thought lost shoved under miserable bed with too worn shoes thin-skinned with being back being away wound from clogged answering machine and post office box accidentally slice a finger thinner than itself yet not stopping but to press the slit finger tight while one-hand rooting through wallet and shoulder bag for

14 — Joe Blades

a suspected bandage not given over to another's blisters rather be beside a river ... on a park bench ... on summer grass ... in a restaurant booth ... on a warm night-breezed patio on a streetcar seat ... some where ...

River Suite — 15

II

tonight calls up a storm of leave taking for a scattering of poets from pacific to ukraine a celebration and honouring with thunder lightning and rain my hand scraping across sky followed by finger and fork lightning down to where i point and when i drum matt's drum tears of earth listen and give dance on our skin river talking beautiful plinka plink plink like a happy guitar heavier rain roars in and bubbles river like after-rapids on this broad tidehead reach

16 — Joe Blades

III

sunspots inside the poet's eyes obscure writing pen and journal pages sinking orange behind mountain ears frightened by sounds of marching feet in this occupied Canada marching through centuries of domination and imposed normal marching: conditioned to tread paths to wear away grass to wear earth down river now orange-green: afterimage sun above horizon mosquitoes at ankles uncomfortable with this shaking voice sore tailbone aching hips smouldering volcanos sunk in tired faces not believing in denial is denial: think of the blood test you don't want satellites winking overhead to ball one's self up and howl this outside into its own existence — tonight is foetal somewhere between reptile and bird

River Suite — 17

IV

TOUCH

after months of awareness: you reached out a hand held explored with your poet fingers and if you read palms you did not tell their stories a poet is no saint no angel no ... a poet does and sometimes movement seen is a throwing of oneself into air or waiting water from near crippling wreckage red moon arced through a hazy June night while poets leaned in close talking of certainties and uncertainties climbing wrought iron fence out of grave yard into street you came down between spikes and slid along upraised arms back at their party you disappeared needing quiet the next night we sit among rocks with five beautiful good men above on riverbank and prophecy stone calling for a celebration and the following night this poet kicking unripe puffballs onto tire-shiny asphalt half-turned and saw you appear on the riverbank but already committed to leaving crossed the road yet among armoury rose bushes you appear by this one's side so we went to the square and joined a hanging around

18 — Joe Blades

last night two poets felt hands holding theirs feet touching theirs atop an ice breaker felt fingers and palms arms face lips slowly slid together atop a granite portal today this poet stops writing and lies exhausted by miserable heat too tired to cold shower half-asleep he dream-feels fingers trickle across his nipples heart beating wild last night they wandered downriver to a pool of weeping willow shadow dripping caterpillars: trainbridge busy with people on foot the green summer-rich with men's cigarette tips fireflies in warm darkness kissing they saw only one eye a nose shifting transparent this poet drifting within fear reaching with insubstantial arms you said the poet is tired too tired but this poet fears love when they feel themselves stirring as if feeling another who may enter and go if they could only let themselves go as they held each other ravelling another millennium of mystery

River Suite — 19

V

SUMMER SOLSTICE

a quiet calm opens summer in this spirit-rich river valley with hope growth and understanding seeing and feeling last night's mars-red moon thin salmon clouds in turquoise sky whitefeather asleep dreamt of blood moon and now she leads on goatskin african tree drum singing honour to this year's long day and shortest night to goddess and horned god at riverbank prophecy stone magic light and a circle of sharing and nothing seems to disturb this year's newborn hunter as all sing and celebrate summer beside this line of standing stones that once carried everything moving from shore to shore

20 — Joe Blades

VI

BESIDE THE RIVER (AGAI

huge orange globe in pink-orange sky air damp with condensation sitting on prophecy stone back one with solidness feeling earth her firmness watching people on foot or joined to motors/wheels watching spiders weave in crevices hair breaths loose over shoulders and back popping overworks tension this river is life — spirit of this land — this imposed city this in-formation object of quest communication consumes: most never know what a poet does if the world is bettered down on the mosquito trail with its lotions and perfumes arms and legs are punctured low bass bubbling reggae rolls across from connexion under speckled indigo night red collecting 300 things for haystack climbs and sits beside

River Suite — 21

buddha body knee shadows floating on river edge where grass breaks and tumbles

22 — Joe Blades

VII to sit comfortably in touch with grass remove two-thirds of these clothes want to remove half of what is (no all of what is) left but in officers' square that would be too much too little clothing second night of summer — night already inexorably lengthening towards winter — was high on prophecy stone watching this quiet world friendships sharings and love under ursula major i am afraid afraid of happiness afraid of love of feelings and doings and there should be no nay saying no reasons to say no but i am afraid this morning could hardly walk legs not functioning but so sadly happy and now i lie cool in green clover a shadowplay of leaves

v

this close to clover eyes cannot clearly see it but smell it feel its moistness take this tri-leaved herb into mouth and savour

24 — Joe Blades

VIII sitting in the no wave zone cherry iron disc slipping through thin haze clouds slipping behind Westmorland bridge and upriver hills surrounding waters one wants to swim like a fish meant to be: quiet time again when song is slow heart beating with earth a million water beetles river dance huge blue bowl above the grass: jittering thousands of insects spiral and zigzag their paths one does not want to raise their head off riverbank grass into that light-kissed dish somewhere not quite above birds call bats stretch wings after another hot sleepy day cormorants fly low under pink remains to love without possession to ride that crazy waterslide and climb watching him walk away steps without recognition ladders know his silver legs wrap hillsides a nearby woman's finger again made by her hands and again when he plays sliding he does not miss a beat in embracing twilight shimmering arms of water

River Suite — 25

IX to venture outside a small room into too hot weather and a commitment to sandals small dragon-puffs of cumulus overhead may grow into the thunder and rain knee rheumatism predicts sitting in shadow of prophecy after a day of rest of reading and many turnings of new writing feeling an understanding of self and this world before the whatever of death ... crazy this feels crazy: watching too hard too intently identifies an observer here not as stifling hot as an above-restaurant room — this world much more open an invitation to burn late on a Sunday afternoon surprising myself huge monster of a ring a book-length from sun upriver — wind scattering dragon breath

26 — Joe Blades

X lying on prophecy stone resting waiting expectant hopeful: life is good holding words of another a doberman that sometimes climbs this stone and then acts like a parisian gargoyle or demented river cormorant comes by but doesn't climb up the first of tonight's lightning strikes northside as odin runs up the floe-breaking slope jumps spins-turns and runs down his shadow in dusk's lengthening reach again he run up then flies riverward over grass into night June bugs whir heat lightning behind clouds blue'black masses glowing from within like lightbulbs or sun through cottonballs it is all poetry and this poet could become a medium a channel could be blasted from this abutment

River Suite — 27

XI

TRUTHS

tonight by this river a lone person pretends to have love and trust to tell of: truths of being afraid of self and of waiting for bloodletting folded up between stones with a sun-warm stench rising off slates all around tonight this river smells salt with a musk like between thighs — scent on fingers for days carrying a book of poems learning to read another voice while curled under pale turquoise sky and salmon clouds (again) believing we all love more than our one self wanting to be open but sometimes so afraid of self and reactions last night on freddy beach arms raised into thunderous rain loosely wove themselves around each other in raindance slow paths over tarred rooftops of bars and stores opposite hotel de ville then beside the great river sharing as dawn stretched high overhead blazing and everyone recognized their committed lives

28 — Joe Blades

this evening curled up on the rocks a person alternates between coffee and scotch while reading aloud to young gulls cormorants and cloud animals drifting through sky ragged like dream fragments from so far across the ocean how can there be such distance?

beside the river a poet lies their head on smooth slate pillow not caring how many or what species of mosquitoes penetrate and feed

River Suite — 29

XII near naked in sunshine by this river by myself on a weekday afternoon called names by the passing names meant to insult sexuality to affirm theirs ... but without room to walk to turn in my body my small room to sort or pack i feel so impossibly ridiculous so asinine trying to do all and not fall hard when i feel i am still a weak boy beside this river afraid of himself want to drown my mind right now but cannot afford emotional irresponsibility or a bottle of numbness so angry i am sad and sad is humble i feel sun's heat and expect to burn up because i put myself here under indifference for for for for

this this this this

earth water air fire

earth i eat water i drink air i breathe fire i burn

30 — Joe Blades

before i go i want to feed all of you when i go i will be only what you care to remember

THE TEST

"But how'm I gonna live my life if I'm positive? Is it gonna be a negative?" — Michael Franti, of Spearhead, from "Positive" on Home

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a

WAITING THRU THE TEST bureaucracy wants me to say fuck it to give up on honour to just go out there without due care and respect to put my faith in naivety and the corporation to blame their god while risking all to stick it whereever i want or where it is wanted dripping everywhere ... and if i'm positive: BANG! we're all closer to our deaths don't need scare tactic counselling that presupposes immoral sex drug use irresponsibility and being positive having it just want the test man want that fucking blood test out of respect it's me

i'm talking about for you

34 — Joe Blades

believe i am clean but thinking of that doctor makes me want to shit myself or squirt hot soapy water inside to clean myself out hate waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting it's a lack of confidentiality: all those numb people pushing paper and my poor blood about the maritimes — my name everywhere everywhere a direct line of personal treason and draconic action threats fuck it i almost say it but i cannot i am responsible — honour and trust say i must do this i know what i have done and when is the risk of having a lottery i never will win cancelled on me a reason not to be tested? is a risk of higher life insurance premiums an issue? i will die whether insured or not

everywhere

River Suite — 35

this is an issue of trust of love and honour of faith and i hope it is not too late

36 — Joe Blades

CLARIFIED dipping head taut red straining-to-burst head for someone to be sitting astride bringing themselves into this dipping head into cup of bellybutton mouth hollow feeling flesh not pressed seeing that shiny head cannot kiss head dipped in cup of clarified semen run down chest hairs and gathered no one rides this joystick or brings their own grasp the base lift vase spout to lips tip drink and lick hanging last drop greedy for the whole fucking drink not sip sip sip nursing boredom's weight

River Suite — 37

THIS AFTERNOON I BLED I feeling fucked up bad disenfranchised disappointed defeated and down down in my dump so sore back like a twisted cinnamon knot or it's been ripped with a fistful of construction spikes leather stud gear my peeled head screaming into cornered pillows under bookshelves smashing room corner wishing someone was walking my back or sitting on me as once offered and not the current impossible apart

distance

haven't heard anything in days and am worried our complex multicelled organisms an always possible fuck 'im who the fuck does he think he is anyway? where are you? i am back in fredville very distant and down from seaside sloth of d'mouth and hell very fucked up — feeling alone — even from possible love here

38 — Joe Blades

fucked up

by waiting cannot ... (or feel i cannot ... ) talk about small town

River Suite — 39

II

to give of myself for love for a truth too late to alter: here i am for the stab (i cannot give blood give the gift of life because on red cross file said i received sex from another man within of that then past 10 years) and yes being so afraid to even admit that wanted knowledge then wanted a test before fredtomb: but her paranoia after discovery of test literature in my desk as if i have it (and wasn't saying) and if i'm dead i'm dead but not from her knives of fear

going to die someday don't want it that way: at someone else's hands

should do this have done that have been there i don't know what if i am what if i have to identify — first names last likes dislikes not enough info

40 — Joe Blades

want to be with some someone or with no one just myself (again) in warm darkness

alone

River Suite — 41

III

the only way to have blood drawn by appointment it took five and a half weeks to please take a number have your medicare i.d. ready and finally leaning over their counter hospital laboratory fluid collection unit read my full name on computer print-out appointment chart and beside it misc test (hiv) there for everyone every staff-person who handles paper who works this desk who wanders by every other person come here to urinate to have blood drawn aids and pregnancy posters in official languages on walls other fluids too and everybody can read about me and my misc test (hiv) there's no confidentiality here everyone knows

42 — Joe Blades

IV somewhere during an afternoon of disbelief and shock denial at what i have just done what i have put my life further into clutches of an afternoon of running of rain of fear of rewarding myself with neil young's new mirror ball a new russet haversack to replace splitting seams one and a five-pair pack of black socks (don't like those shouting white sports tubes) ... afternoon surreal don't want to think don't want to be anywhere here don't want to know you people don't want to walk amongst you don't want to go on radio and read poems about latex don't want another coffee don't somewhere is gauze tape and absorbent pad a nurse almost old enough to be my grandmother taped over a hole her needle made in my arm inside fold of my sore elbow my right arm purple-bruised lump from that spike somewhere in this river town is a lost absorbent ball holding my blood — it fell off my arm unnoticed

River Suite — 43

V somewhere so(d)omwhere sodom here sodomy so damn me sodom me some me so(me) so s-o-1 shit out of luck

44 — Joe Blades

VI it's been raining at least 40 hours: don't want to be in public want to stay hiding in my room twilight angry music surrounding my emptiness my void hiding building a body cast out going nowhere drying clear like liquid latex and pulling as hard i hurt lying here writing and drinking waiting waiting waiting turning myself on/off draining tanks until my engine coughs and seizes up refusing to turn over refusing to run to flee refusing to be here to wait

River Suite — 45

RE:CALL morning sky unmoving grey not still not calm but heavy weighted waiting for too much saturation cooler air dusty black silk morning black socks grey shorts underwear sneakers waiting to climb regent hill ugly yellow bruise clouds inside punctured elbow waiting aching waiting for what new day? what end? coffee made in mug lips have not opened not parted for air sound food damn words few birds sing — the only sounds after trash mafia rattle bins grey yellow skin shadows unsettled eyes staring

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ENDLESS RIVER

"... irrational pleasure of a creature in the fact that its surroundings were there long before its own appearance, and will be there long after ..." — A.S. Byatt, from Babel Tower

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River Suite — 49

HARTLAND eagle circling above longest covered bridge yellow tour bus yankees crossing on foot through clapboard darkness overrun tourist bureau parents and i wait on eastern shore cameras in hand union jack Canadian new brunswick flags limp windless hot air honour in the grass wing feather from raptor circling overhead

50 — Joe Blades

ENGINE BREAKDOWN sitting on the green in the shade of an elm on a park bench beside the Italian marble fountain writing in my journal about last night and how good a day it is ... pressed by tiredness watching anxiety set up shop wanted loud music and beer i cannot afford so went out walking instead feeling naked while wearing shorts and denim shirt walking upriver watching lightning move towards fredtown watching it seeing/hearing/feeling it brings back my spirits — power of this land — sun on my back facing land on the sun's path aligned with sun and earth only then do wild strawberries show their sun^ripe plumpness my hand red with their juice

River Suite — 51

i ask forgiveness and am given harvest these strawberries as with the blue and the rasp the black the fox and the cran are rhythms connecting me with sun and earth in this world of berry the bee is goddess in yellow and black blessing plants to be fruitful

an angry man let down by his machines his toys his motorboat screams at a woman in a boat drifting alongside the green: "are you fucking stupid? dumb bitch give it more gas more gas FUCK i can't steer if it's not running do i have to fucking do everything?" he shoves the woman (probably wife but i don't want to say "his wife" and grant ownership)

52 — Joe Blades

and a little boy hits them pushes them out of his angry man way wanting control things to work right wanting to drive and to steer when the cables or something connecting controls and the motor are severed wanting to be captain and chief engineer wanting to be his image of man and not a wreck upon the shore i'm so upset i have to leave have to walk to the port warden and report (though i doubt police will get involved)

later i find a fourAeaf clover a piece of wasp nest rolling over grass

River Suite — 53

THE DOGS the dogs are restless straining at their leashes their chains their domesticated masters in mosquito and dryfly night fireflies flash their here i am in grass alongside this endless river dogs pulling people along both shores the dogs know me and my living in the approach of darkness — i am always here sitting and watching this world the steel blue-black river breaks white with a leaping salmon the air smells bladesian with lightning from beyond river stipples with scattered raindrops the dogs sniff me out but do not lift their legs to claim this bench the dogs read over my shoulder as i try writing tonight they thrust their heads in my hands the dogs already own me

A

DUMPING waves of leaves swirl rise and fall unsettled unable to pile on top of ferns and grasses in the gully bottom because the grasses and ferns have themselves been piled upon truck after red dumptruck — all summer long — hauled hillside across two roads and two rail lines to behind the old estate house of the boyces of the ww boyce farmer's market dumped and pushed earth into ravine right up tight to the stream where spring st John river waters flood and sadly we walk now above our heads above where we used to reach on trunks of flood plain maples all that reach of tree now buried under mud stumps and rock neighbouring tenants university students — red and black pennants around their barbecue — set fireworks out there in a wedge of stones during frosh week burnt husks of exuberance slowly falling over into raw mud autumn leaves colourful on brown ground gone is last year's brilliant flames of sumach and now there is no opening up of the ravine as leaves depart the loyalist graveyard appearing clearer day by day those gravestones always visible — too easy to see — all the bushes and small trees this side of the stream have been bulldozed many are buried between salamanca and that graveyard on the other side of the stream where thin air should be the landlords have expanded their plot their usable land behind this house for parking or whatever they have in mind a converted school bus a bar band bus stays overnight a camper trailer moves in for winter but even fallen leaves cannot cover this unnaturalness and hurt this disrespect for earth and this river flowing through our lives

River Suite — 55

(S)AND a line of seedling maples waver where spring pushed their seeds a departure of shorebirds low and off empty clam shells and dead perch sandgrass and purple loosestrife in flower a worried bird calls from black willow crickets rub legs together bare-assed on sun-warm sand where no one should walk — an invisible stretch of summer — an unknown real freddy beach so far away from trucks along trans-canada highway and buses i used to ride on northside: irving fuel tanks and fort nashwaak motel floodplain maple trees green and silver with wind lifting their undersides thin sickle moon hanging high and empty above soccer field sky nothing what i am trying to do best failing by writing by a new message on answering machine: i am busy i'm always busy right now busy sitting in sand wiggling my ass and feet in it telling myself i am relaxing while computers have designs on me authors and accounts demand i feel so far away sitting not watching my back just a narrow wet shore — pleasure boats go by

56 — Joe Blades

bones and joints hurt breasts unfulfilled but aware shadows reaching across waters on beach cool and covered after certain failures to perform unreasonable expectations and demands eyes and mind glaze over nose not smelling sewage pump station just downriver sun sweat on hands and arms sucking skin in nibbling mouth sand on teeth hope this message gets through: so few bottles sailing from here downriver across atlantic on gulf stream too chancy to anything but dreams or wild wishes for nature's ways a man comes by (unexpectedly) walking a young dog while i am sitting buried in sand and i feel he is looking too closely like he sees something he doesn't walk far up wet shore comes back and i've only slightly changed position pulled up cover enough think he wonders if he saw something but i am still sitting and writing my main thing

River Suite — 57

fredville waters said to be clean enough — cleanest in decades — safe for swimming (but for boats and broken history-strewn bottom) maudlin nature boy scared away yet on nearby footpath hear tales from a friend about a discovered private skinny dipping spot i envy silk tassel around heart and body no decoration for anything but poison someday i will be caught with no out but the stupidity of knowing all along have to wonder what you think (scratch think) what you feel have to wonder at the sadness of myself (watching marathon canoeists practice ten measured paddle strokes and change sides only arms and shoulders moving drinking through tubes canoe surges) what i am where i am why? knowing distance and its real cannot feel skin on my fingers tongue mouth penis legs feet stomach to stomach belly to back chewing each other's hair air might cool the room tonight perhaps a feeling of pressure released back unknotting itself so i can sit and create

58 — Joe Blades

AUTUMN EQUINOX edgy churned up feeling grubby jumping at every sound: drugged-musician bass pulsing up through floor "puff the magic dragon" through shared walls upstairs unb ironmen — the rugby brothers — host a late-night barbeque party with flying bottles a yard full of staggering boys and burnt meat full moon shining down: i spent today collecting leaves fallen to ground — frost-bitten and coloured bunchberry leaves gone transparent and dry — only a lacy tracery of veins left on branch face scraped raw bleeding from little cuts on neck and chin an ear plugged as if waterlogged after too deep a dive and i can't shake it clear hanging around restless expecting disappointment cold unpleasant rain tearing wind things to go wrong

River Suite — 59

PATH OF A HARVEST MOON I shattered pumpkin strewn across lawns streets wiccan doorstep

II

afraid for their footing afraid of stepping inside those seeded globes wobbling in their orbits forgetting that gravity attracts their shattered world no one looks up through woven tree branches into magic wonder rising over river harvest rolling pumpkin moon up over frost-burnt horizon hills

III

come out of study carrels out of medieval catacombs with copier green eye and that blurriness from reading between lines of fine print awe-struck by largesse — tree cilia handing this harvest moon around its circle

60 — Joe Blades

stand on glacier-scraped rock solidness of this earth sediment of a past ocean feeling blood pump through heart feeling eyes mind open beyond science linear logic walk towards that spirit path crossing the river believe in your destination don't take a bus or train walk through frosted grass wet leaves see the orange moon disappear behind trees while you walk confidently downhill into river valley walk under the stately tree blanket we've burrowed within see moon disappear behind far hills it's not yet risen in the valley

IV harvest there to pick it is seeing and gathering: collect dirty linen empty bottles gum wrappers curios of detritus on hotel carpets and city streets gather rocks and leaves berries roots and mushrooms in woods fields and streams

River Suite — 61

look with me through your thrown-away and overlooked — earth supports us and the circling moon

V without this moon we would live in a windstorm would grow older and no wiser in a third of our time if this moon was closer earth would shake us off our feet tides and waves would wash land and us back to sea if this moon was not such a part of our lives we would not feel its pull its call its trusting dedication life is not for granted: cars and people wrap themselves around each other around power poles and around moose (the moose usually get back on their feet and walk into the woods)

62 — Joe Blades

head holes punched in windshields police boats crisscrossing water underneath bridges sudden blood on sidewalks on backseats of buses grill plastic shatter glass and fire-retardant sand in unswerving intersections

VI how many how few people see this moon this magic that keeps us going that keeps us whole by keeping this moon in cycle keeping planets in their orbits as sun and moon rise from earth's lip and return plants rise and return to earth i am walking now soon you will find me lying down grass and leaves covering me and i will return to the earth moon pulling heartstrings clear eyes reflect this season this moonlight all senses alert on this path this course travelled between stars moon illuminating darkness giving hearts their rhythm

River Suite — 63

BLUE GRAPES already ready for winter wearing toque over cold ears goose-down vest over denim over wool and more hands fisted in pockets walking in brisk wind but over there — under sodium arc lights — women play tennis as if on a summer night ignoring the rustling leaves underfoot folded into myself cold — not welded damascus steel — more like a scored envelope or a perforated ticket to spectacle sac of prunes on a twig pencil without an eraser and mistakes being made lines etching themselves ever-young writer growing old not growing up no wiser for today promising empty pocket images and a humble headache that never consciously leaves near winter smallness: frantic with failure of being one being tied to cookstove bed to washer and dryer to fax machine and computer — want to gnaw at one's self because the leg-hold will not release its restrictive tension

64 — Joe Blades

concord grapes along river behind old government house small even for jelly or foxy provincial wine after decades of neglect vines hang over bushes and small trees like wild cucumber

River Suite — 65

BOX OF MEMORIES staring out my only window coffee cooling on desk ... forgotten four gourds shipped from jettisoned life line up on the narrow inside ledge i planted their seeds but had to walk away yet in the garage of that past a bag of harvest unexpected four windows on sunlit rear wall of next building two pigeons tottering along roof flashing unpainted cinderblock glowing sun-warm a private parking maple tree smoke-free donuts roof and steeples crown of elm tree above hilltop horizon down in a corner where all buildings and fire escapes seem to join together a traffic light changes from green up to amber up to red STOP tireless i sit here 24 hours a day watching change an hour a day ten years earth's spin will eventually remove that wall from the sun's reach cold coffee drunk or poured out donuts rising again and herded downhill for the waiting pigeons will land on a different roof and i will be staring out a different window or no window staring into finite distance of a corner or tree trunk this building collapsing slower than a cardboard box of papers and photos in rain and river flood soon ceremonial guns on the riverbank will fire again their war long over but others always being fought salt and pepper shakers in cafe ole wear prussian helmets of nazis — elegant irony in a box from europe — frost on plastic wreaths at memorials cenotaphs and sebastapols mark the dead and those missing so few living from those wars old fighters and healers lift warbling voices in song knowing life with guns cannot be trusted while we age

66 — Joe Blades

REMEMBER IITH step out of the shower to big guns firing and the banshee wail of siren somewhere in the valley careening downhill from hospital through downtown promenade turning abruptly at riverbank where regent street once began at a long-gone wharf tara maclean sings "would i die for you?" as big guns boom shaking this frail room tough as an eggshell holding yoke in and as easily crushed it is 11:11 when i look at the clock don't have to look i just know feel it in my urgency in quivering stomach and arm muscles sore from holding myself tight on this grey day morning this time that catches me again and again morning or night not just on this eleventh day of this misnamed eleventh month i shake or quiver eyes sore water dripping off wet hair as those big guns fire and i think of real battles fought here when there were more than thirteen british colonies in north america of how redcoats burned houses barns everything as they swept out of halifax across the bay of fundy and up river driving supporters of colonial independence backwards into what later became boston's colony

River Suite — 67

of maine in the united states of america the battle almost over one final boom then silent gun marching bands proud on fair queen street brilliant against black sky i naked in my small room wet and alone with a story of some visiting germans insisting they cross the st croix river the canada-us border the so-called undefended tax-monitored border to Calais bargains to be had for welcome to america! cross-border shoppers home of macdonalds 11 bean hollywood and large strap-on pistols — just an ordinary law and order day that side of the river — and the germans were there they visited america proof is stamped passports

68 — Joe Blades

WINTER SOLSTICE moon high in still night sky behind us first snow on the ground ice restless trying to settle on river trying to get comfortable at home for winter this little flame this candle here to light the sun's way to guide to welcome the sun on this day when night is its longest — our east-facing faces brighten with your glow from beyond we stand here in a semicircle behind the candle: happy birthday watch you stretch towards venus and the moon you wash earth with today's light as we silently i wish ... i wish ... (but cannot say) the flame brightens as it pulls sun closer a flying buttress of wax grows on leeward side of the candle before we blow out the flame silently for the new year for the last hand of this millennium in this counting in the calm of this past night river ice has grown thin and smooth from shore to shore with scattered open patches in the cathedral of trees a crow welcomes the sun to this day and a flock of gulls rise in a swirl of celebration and drift towards open water

River Suite — 69

now winter is here today is here indigo night shifts through grey-blues to a pale blue wash of clouds with blush above this noble daughter of the forest

70 —Joe Blades

NIGHT with insomnia this night like January ice fading in a warmer than ever thaw valley and town filling with soft warm fog feeling invalid again almost fall asleep while writing in bed (don't ...) and unexpected tears run reluctant down my stubbled cheeks the art and the words fear of and love confusion and reluctance what i am what i believe i am almost capable of tired ... i tried but unable to fall into night's ease i'm writing drinking red dog beer naked but for a jackshirt wondering if i am mad enough what am i thinking? what can i hope to do? a monkey with crossed legs too twisted to "hang loose" my image in the mirror obscure 1:45 am and someone is knocking on a door down the hall once they enter or leave i will dress again and walk with the night

River Suite — 71

out into a surprising iciness a glaze of drizzle coating the road and cross-ties of the nine spans of the meditation railway bridge and the Japanese temple bridge walking the ties like climbing stairs watching each foot's slippery step river ice white far below not that i could ever fall through the narrow cooing of pigeons walking ... the few moving cars taxis and police sound mystic and the transport trucks loom out of mist like enslaved elephants resigned while i slip along their paths if i simply go back to my room to my not-monastic-enough cell i will have to try for sleep when insomnia seems my only companion all coffee shops and restaurants are closed only a gas station open thick with cabbies and no tables no place to sit and write so i continue walking ... walking ...

72 — Joe Blades

MEETING AND DISPERSING WITH INTENT fish under river ice swim living slow but living in sluggish current arctic air mass tears through unfocused town eyes blur in sudden sharp wind blast after stepping out of false shelter of building corner — press on — ingots melt in the crucible space waiting inside plaster sub-zero wind blows downriver from beyond Ottawa with potential lethargy trees river no more church suppers contract out dreams privacy go to sleep now media contact outside mainstream fine arts gulf stream information highway plugged into wrists donuts for dollars membership cards come with birth we are all of us quietly eating mud lift it into sun to bake fire it fill it with seeds germinate and nurture water job creation potholes on the roads of town contemporary pain activate the sleepers in stasis job description dartboard curate beyond the theme

River Suite — 73

of Sunday collection plates exchange show-and-tell ideas write your way out of this one with reference to various derivative past futures

74 — Joe Blades

EGGPLANT when the hills were flatter when the hills are old and tired when the hills were mountains when the hills are young and rough when the hills were seabeds when the hills are unformed thoughts there were no autumns of bright-coloured maples before reptiles and fish acid rains fell without industry and sparked our unknown beings in the churned-up waters in street-dark night rain blowing sideways i feel outside an outsider not alone in feeling isolated flat rock lichens eat sun in their pallid sun worship existence and wedge themselves into every grain's cracks in the house of broken people i could live the rest of my life in this warren of ex-this recovering-that downtown between towering rocks no certain climbing one foot in front of the other getting harder and harder sometimes crawling blue in no-oxygen face kentucky headhunters bone fields exploding meet shuffle demons deusexmachina grateful dead

River Suite — 75

in rock-held hollows deaths and decay soak in their own juices feeding local uprisings

76 — Joe Blades

PREQUEL in falling darkness pain burns twisting through another numb Saturday night at another table in this bright-lit northside donut shop a streetperson only slightly worse-dressed but worse-off sits at a corner table scribbling bible quotes in a notebook don't like comparisons being drawn in staff eyes: strange smiles overheard comments why cross that bridge? any bridge? am my own madness ... a kid afraid of himself am no one's parent am not under a bridge shooting heroin or cutting myself still the river flows i am always doing something though feeling i am poison ... a slow twisting death black coffee for here oatmeal apple muffin to go sitting in middle of abandoned trainbridge feet dangling between ties drinking polish wodka — should be sweet wine Canadian sherry — protecting a muffin from getting crushed a "roll up the rim" muffin sitting in mid-river with the vastness of itself pulling away pulling down both shores so far away people so far away blind flashes of lights from turning cars way out there far beyond me river still in flood wind furious starting to howl i should not be alone i should not be here i should not be this bridge does not stop me love and/or hunger for lips and warmth are dangers i am afraid of the why's of darkness cloaked in indifferent night what makes this a Saturday? or Saturdays more desperate? unseen unheard unfelt downriver is a warehouse of popular anger and hope on the road in the mosh pit above my head flap tatters of covers on mid-bridge train traffic lights rustle like the demons in goya's sleep shreds of last year's cloth scarecrows acid rain eaten flags above conquered lands i sit here ... bare fingers and ass going numb from sitting ... writing from inner drive by wastes of random street and vehicle light bounced off low wet clouds onto this silent screaming page

River Suite — 77

should be scared scarred but want less ... a natural awareness a realness a nakedness and a warm stirring of thoughts afraid of myself and so many is this a prelude? an intricate weave of tension holds this bridge together holds it suspended above water — that it is capable of holding itself this way does not mean in its best interests wind is furious knowing i sit on this thin platform beside these rusting rails but I don't feel wind on my skin i hear bells of little ben but do not count do not want to know how close hurt is how deep the night how far away the shores are i drift ... last night at the dead guitarist tribute art opening heard about an eclipse ... a partial eclipse ... just before beltane and wonder if that's why my everything was thrown up in the air like reading sticks to fall into a new pattern ... a new order path changing in midstride why is my story this groaning humming singing iron bridge over the spirit ... the holy ganges of this land ... and my beclothed body distant from itself ... from life avoidance like parents or self-respect or love messing me up bad school and employed-by-others-enslavement tying rne up ... trying to make me accept their greater being ... their power i do not want to be there i step aside darkness only darkness and the displacement of the ambulance of the hour flashing in my mind even when these eyes are closed to the call of human disaster bump into me knock me off course ... out of the arms of the tree ... out of the shackling arms of time defending night and the rights of people has got me assaulted and sorry am i not for defending but for being man-handled that way when i didn't want my body is afraid what did you expect ... a marilyn laughing shocked in a towel? i scare scar myself hate the lumpy mattress under crushing wall of books they are not going to take you home take your hole and toss yourself into it ... eclectic clothes and all along the river is no one no cars but perhaps a silhouette ahead at the drinking fountain so slide into a sidestreet a sideways shuffle to avoid and are you following? are you waiting? are you breathing heavy? catch your breath breathe deep relax i am gone ... where?... where?

78 — Joe Blades

SALAMANCA BAYOU a recurring vision of child bride in white in a flat boat poled through dark on rippling moonlit waters between grey tree trunks in the cathedral of spring flood salamanca bayou she stands at the prow still as spiritual statuary afraid of the ever-growing unknown at the end of her last free night in this flooded forest world sent to her unknown unseen fate believed descendent from earliest loyal settlers dying before cabins and vegetable gardens were hewn from forest their gravestones on spring's island the end of her childhood the end of innocence and coddling lies from parents and village elders her abandonment her sacrifice an appeasement to the past a fearful prayer for the future ghosting over flooded feet the woven roots of the settled on the thin skin of earth floating between hide-leather trunks with flotsam of everything unattached and caught in this indiscriminate tithe swept downriver to where capillaries jostle memories of fear respect and love in the commerce of earth and water under spring's full moon she is every field made fertile every bedside's promise of life

River Suite — 79

BESIDE THE RIVER here is lost gone the way of waking three mornings in a row and still forgetting (or something) to write the possible down it metamorphs blackout in from outside out of sight a talking to ... messages shrouded in butterflies convince you vision of a thousand shimmering wings millions of scales flowing rippling currents relinquish against window dead coming in butterflies into vampires snap lights on night-flooded bayou remember stories: insectoid hovering over dead loyalists sharp stabs of pain convulsing left leg out hole in knee and up through steel-cabled back writhe

80 — Joe Blades

FIRST DAY OF SPRING light snow falls out of bright high-cloud sky a day for celebrating for getting on with life for fulfilling predictions that this work at home will take root and grow last summer's balloon its ribbons snared in tree branches hangs deflated broken its body unintentionally pierced by sun-questing fingers a fading 1917 t-shirt covers this body reflected back at me from a slightly convex screen these words strung across a sky-intense blue as blue thin air umbra of jagged-edged mountains waves ripple scaled reptilian skin we crawl across that we live in the folds of on upward thrust ocean floor bristle fluff up feathers rattle scales and claws arched back seems to loom immense after humbling flat prairies bobbing with a pull of currents and breath in this viscous blood of earth flowing over surface of a fragile exoskeleton

River Suite — 81

(or you find yourself on a sun-lost day where your only blue is a cotton felt shirt from a maine trading post or outfitter and everything else feels defeating: yellow holes drilled in snow grey leached lime stains on blond-grey cement block grey as bleached wood on the seaward sides of everywhere) earth rocking in its cradle tilting and sweeping through ever new space inside its thin electron shell tethered on its unseen umbilical cleansed on the last night of winter by honest bitter brew and lemon meringue pie i wake to find myself facing the centre of our life the sun the spit-shiny umbo of this discus soaring through all that matters

82 — Joe Blades

BLIND CONTOUR DRAWINGS in fiction in the detective novel i have been reading there is a funeral this morning at 10 am friday it is only an hour away and i'rn sitting here writing a poem if it be blessed and becomes one under a robin-egg blue sky a candied jellybean caster egg blue staff are sweeping the parking lot at tim hortons — the bunny cake (with the cardboard ears) special still available i sit here profaning again this morning someone will talk: "came across Westmorland street bridge just after dawn sky streaked pink and yellow from sun rise behind dome of the legislature building and the mayor was standing between his off-ramp and the river with a bull moose wearing a murder of crows in its rack of horns don't ask me why but they must be doing it for our good ..." or "this coffee tastes of tears and far away ocean the sadness of wandering through destroyed remains of another's home knowing we cannot return to the past but perhaps by all powers that be the toppled can be righted and something rebuilt without anyone losing ..." or

River Suite — 83

"there's a special performance tonight at the playhouse by madonna and the immaculate conception box office opens at 9 am tickets are only 10% of your wage or unwage ..." was i wearing a crown of thorns or a hit me sign taped to my back bloody points piercing my forehead long hair and the threat of it being cut off during sleep pseudomona stigmata in one foot the smashed kneecap the bruised and damaged wrist and thumb nerves chilblains and the sadness that lights my way get down off your cross

buddy

a crowd fighting for their rights to denounce and divide my raven's hoard of flash to splinter the soapbox underfoot and loop tension round my neck hoods or berets or helmets on your heads bird droppings falling from disturbed nesting grounds this pigeon roost this rookery in the crown of a dying elm this rusted banged-up dumpster at your service entrance is my store today this good friday morning this april fool's day at 10 am the exhibition committee meets to cast lots to weigh the worthy for ascension for hanging on the walls of this empty cave justice is built upon no soldier dividing booty nor a disciple of christ perhaps heretics wanting to drive pawnbrokers

84 — Joe Blades

and trinketeers from this ground i want to raise a bonfire on snowcleared crown of a hill i want to burn crosses latent in trees and the stretched canvas of paintings almost a third of a century into this and only yesterday discovered or remembered the significance of hot cross buns again how stupid can i be? forgetting they only appear this time of year: after the full moon after the vernal equinox good friday under a pale blue sky in the Philippines men are blessed and nailed to a cross christ for a day that changes their lives i press the point of a pencil into my palm black graphite inside a red stigmata long after the white shock has gone i think of a boy in grade 7 two years ahead of me who slipped arid put a length of glass piping through his hand during a science experiment — the shock and wonder — the terrible magic song like robert frost's fingerless millhand — light shining through bird-wing web of bones in this miracle of hand i believe he died from a brain tumour that same year pencils poke through my hands clenched in fists i think of comic book advertisements for magic machines with nibs and pencils at the ends of their arms that can reduce or enlarge anything

River Suite — 85

simply by tracing originals and adjusting that is all I hope to be what we all might be i hang myself on a pencil and create this blind contour drawing — what is felt of what is seen transcribed without watching the transcription onto vellum or parchment onto sanatorium walls with the mediums of the body dream of drawing in beach sand with a stick watching the waves roll in and wash the message out to sea — beach streaked with wet salty sand where waters ebb and flow eyes out back of the skull a hunchback of a forehead chisel teeth crawling ghoulish up cheek tongue coming out from what i have no other name for than temptation swallowed whole and the sinner bared at my throat ears on eyes and eyes on hair and all the body juggled in unseen vision of self i'm not in christ's shoes though i have been cast as Joseph walking walking an ass and mary through dusty nazarene school auditorium mary from just up the street daughter of a school of beltane her father kneading minds with experience and knowledge encouraged these hands to gather earth and rock to see the wonders of it stones up to my eyes to the polish of the wheel to read stories of earth before humans in any form

8(5 — Joe Blades

in the lens of coffee reflecting white light further into this room i see myself running the lakeside footpath in a getaway — feet flying from rock to rock to board to rock over and over till i puncture my foot on an unseen nail and shocked cannot run further hide in a copse of young spruce under oaks at. this bend of path remove my sneaker and sock to find a rust-ringed hole in my arch wordlessly i wash my foot in the lake and never tell ... on the third day of caster he rose (again) made a first cup of coffee ate more of christ's buns turned the computer on to continue writing ... rattling stones in a pocketed handful of coinage from this and neighbouring realms rolling stones through anti-matter of the universe up the hill (again) (and again) soothing stones raising a sheen on their skin with oils from fidgeting fingers tasting this stone in the cave of mouth it's monday another stupid monday banks closed post office closed liquor stores closed Canadian tire open or closed dare i ask dare i climb the hill to get fishing gear or spikes and hang around the half-ton trucks of locals selling vegetables and fish as sun arcs through afternoon arid beyond into another night

River Suite — 87

if it was an ordinary dreaded monday and if i was employed by protestant work ethic it would be worse i would be late he rose showered and shaved after grey dawn lifted a little gloom from the cinder block world he dressed in black feeling the lack of light drizzle filming its wetness over everything the mouse inactive rests on the desk among piles of edited poems and bestof-intentions envelopes for letters and announcements of the return reading by an almost unknown prodigal son who lives and breathes who writes and walks in the valley of the shadow of poets' corner everything uphill except ocean — the tear that once was all the salt tear that pearled the grit of earth — it's too easy to forget our insignificance rolling through the dirt of this world too quick to deny what we do that we are responsible for ourselves we deny we are today's dinosaurs goddess of wood and land of water and breath of lightning and ice forgive me this this roman mumbo-jumbo of my indoctrination i was baptised with your water from a font in his name as if from the hands of John tell me there is no significant coincidence in this world it is all intent no cod in anymore in the north atlantic and cod was the new world the new found land the fish belly-up on my chest has left salty ocean its gills and mouth open to air

88—Joe Blades

it has no body of water to live in but like lung fish in baked mud crust dried ponds and rivers of africa it waits out drought for years or forever until waters rise and release its earthenware siesta earth seems to be warming to be drying these past months of cold shouting and the rage that separated limbs from frozen trunk the dust of the desert is emerging from frozen muddied dog wastes held inside ice and snow while you lifted your chin into the sun and we on your forehead find ourselves with increasing light groundhogs would prefer this day to any in early february today muck starts to become soil on the great seed of you on the dry skin of your onion set we prepare ourselves for renewed life: in other climes woman and man couple in worship of you and a promise of harvest — they worship lands already greening here corn and other grains remain sealed against winter and the threat of another blind snow lashing out at us who have moved in i cannot undo my ancestors though i am aware of them in my acknowledgement of this land i live on them on bones and bodies of everything that died or was killed to bring me here to the foot of this hill in this provincial town darkness brings me into light: dark roots our fears anchors them dried blood on rocks and weapons in hand the pen's contaminated pool i dip myself in

River Suite — 89

light grown intense collapses on itself draws still more light into its darkness i lift my beating heart out offer it to the sun on high offer myself to one who best pushes back this darkness we live within in the cave of the universe this yellow sun lights our brief days on earth without sun we would be worse off than shrews clawing blind through soil after worm scent without sun we would not have become worms in the ocean we would not be anything stumbling about in this cave not seeing the terrain underfoot but feeling my feet slip in an epoch's accumulated guano sometimes i wish that like bats i could see with sound (which may be what i am trying to do — to fly to swim in darkness buoyed up by reflections and resistance) but then i might be blind in sunlight would be more disturbed by artificial light by man-made brilliance would shriek and escape into shadow and dark recesses again in the plot of a family's vegetable garden crossed limbs of last year's scarecrow still stand — stuffed man in old clothes and aluminium pie plates leaning over remains of last year's harvest nothing to protect nothing to lord over nothing to frighten anything away from nothing to contemplate eating crow over as wind and april sun pierce grey clouds flashes of light bounce across rotted tufts of last year's plants like a dog hearing mice in the leafless umbrellas of streamside elms a murder of crows black against open sky

90 — Joe Blades

NEW MOON new moon funk time leaping about the trusty knee barometer on another april fool's day a sickness of catch-up and another year-end starts what is inside your pants? why aren't you all over me? are you a man or what? river rising moon pulled away into earth shadow treasure seekers scan emerging grass in city squares for the lost more afraid than ever of love and my ability to have a coffee another and another until head floats sick and tired adrift in detritus of change that only ebbs

River Suite — 91

delirious with space and emptiness all around and inside curled foetal atop bed bus seat and park bench on a Saturday afternoon head underneath bloodless grey in that unlit rut how up is high in the land of do

nothing the land without gravity? love?

92 — Joe Blades

JUST THINKING thinking of bison of buffalo grass that is gone for alberta grain think of pain of longing and awareness without ability to help of the impossibility of all of our inner children to be on the swings together to be kicking our feet high pumping our legs our bums flying off swing seats when we reach above the horizon bar and our chains go slack with our sickness to fly thinking of banff buffalo paddock and a bull that regularly escapes that herd of cows and calves held for drive-by tourists and fools like myself inside texas gates and wire fence with camera and fleet foot because i have no vehicle to stay inside

River Suite — 93

thinking of the river tonight's higher water storms that just passed through of motor coaches made in quebec florida and texas and a pickup truck full of Scarborough boys that has brought them all to this river city thinking of an agate window in my squared cave of people and sabretoothed tiger trapped there tiger reared up one person falling backwards seeming underneath sabre the other standing strong as if they are together an act before circus and i think of the calmness of river waters tonight how it reflects stars and lights how i sit here on a false bank of trucked-in boulders thinking of hopeless fire in my hands of the child i passed through of the parent i've not become of how i care and love and how that hurts while an answering machine catches messages for a telephone unplugged and i'm not there to receive

94 — Joe Blades

i m not here now not where you think not where you fear not off this earth yet not gone far

CHAMCOOK AND AFTER

"I love this river. But worship is too strong a word ... I only care for the river's immortality, not its holiness." — Gita Mehta, from River Sutra

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River Suite — 97

CHAMCOOK sitting on york street sidewalk waiting for a ride to the ocean friday afternoon sitting on sand/ stone wind/ rows of an inner sea ten million times older than i scuttling over crab-niched rocks fossil-bearing ocean two fingers of sea sponge in my waving hand clear water bushes of floating goldbrown seaweed cormorants and gulls crest a light onshore breeze feeling the ocean rise around this point — waters pulled up the bay feeling my breeze-erect nipples and golden-haired chest a seal barks on an offshore rock while my hair swirls restless on my back as seaweed against these rocks slowly disappearing with water and wind — even at my slowest i move too fast for this old giving earth

98 — Joe Blades

snails crawl across mud feeding and always moving unless sea leaves them behind and they retreat inside barnacles root themselves on silt-thin layers of past ocean before this was fundy when rift faults dropped a piece of land within then caught and held on with slow grip then clouds rained themselves out of the skies and forests grew were toppled into rivers and buried in sediment small dinosaurs sealed inside hollow trunks now falling out of spring storms' cliff face two bald eagles on poles of an abandoned fish weir nets still leading fish in to no one's harvest while clammers raid the cove bottom beach for their commercial survival bucket after bucket of clams destined for the far from here

River Suite — 99

WINE STAIN folded wings stick high above my shoulders and head rubbing ears and long hair i sit on edge riverbank park bench fire escape cannot fly have been losing parts of my identity and goals though i'm here and now and august's full moon almost upon us grows with light as a helicopter approaches tonight's flame pink sunset has long passed west of here i wonder (again) if it's enough to write poetry to have good hands to be an accidental workaholic aphrodisiac to be afoot in dew wet grass wining and lying with earth

100 — Joe modes

THE MESSAGE sky and water fire river valley and mountains spread far beyond sight or sense finger fish leaping muskrat floats feeding a sprinkle of birds fly black on lurid flame outside the ruins of last night i lost: throat gulping empty with fear eyes dam swelling where garrison club was long after being beside old government and far more ancient burial ground left leg gone from knee down holding gut in from unseen slash leaning on another

in his bones storms hurl up the coast not giving up his heavy bag the messenger must keep moving to get through

River Suite — 101

this time only a little water on the knee and limping mother's grey hair hands of power reading night braids of now: time to return to your people young warrior time for home

102 — Joe Blades

AT WATERLINE setting sun ridgepole of this long river house clouds the highest branches and leaves of trees empty shells and stones remind of lives lived and spent voices of travellers heard long out of mist before their arrival tobacco on the water: pray for the follies of this life thanks for being born here for love and this journey fire ember glow slipping behind fingers of cloud another dash of birds muskrat swimming upstream kayaks dip their wings coming to land for night cherry dotted i on blue inkwash

River Suite — 103

UPRIVER upriver is mist no islands no mountain no curve towards the heart wolustuk sunsets grow in shells of freshwater clams eternal salmon pink and orange it was a sore walk here wet in falling wetness knee tight enough to snap gather stones into pockets into folds of my hands seeking calm of slower life

104 — Joe Blades

FIGHT PATH in her shoulder are knots muscles tensed from don't tell never tell or you will die and not from falling on the other shoulder choking choking flailing legs kicking out kicking away choking on memory of penis she stopped breathing forgot how ... unable ... unwilling ... numb numb numb numb numb smile gone with your need to heal need to save others self was lost stolen beside storage room in the basement on the floor looking back looking at ceiling stars blackout feeling pinned down shoulders pinned ...

River Suite — 105

and again this summer past damaged in falling mountain bike accident with him again no accident feeling like you are dying blackness darkness safe or confused hiding in darkness bottom of closet

the path of life and light over our heads the path of water seeping through stone the path of earth and the shaping of vessels the path of the sufferers from head injuries the path of fish upriver and birds over hills the path of survivors from wreckage the path of human and spirit beings

106 — Joe Blades

dragonfly lighting on shoulder in river linked couple of bluebodied dragonflies skim water's surface circling laughing with summer sun on clear skin fish kisses while turtles sun on river rocks fish swim by you dream of a bark cylinder stitch a pouch of deer skin for medicine and grandfather stones: rose quartz and apache tear

the toughest knot is living in darkness making room for the lost children of your memories stale air in aviary of gasping lungs fire from your lips black claws and fighting dragon on your arm — a continuous pulse beating heart drum encircling your body — dragon fire for deadwood under the cauldron of your spirit

River Suite — 107

don't wake the dead just ease your body from underneath theirs know them for what they did for what they are know them for what they are not the sun rises every day earth spins without hindrance or help from us the universe has changed since i started writing this since you started reading this i don't know where you are what state you are in there is unease in your life forces swirl around these eyes and back in my canyon cave i am unable to see you

108 — Joe Blades

BODHISATTVA BLUES red morning sunrise and i am still alive to see all orange and pink-red soft cloud underbelly cocooning rainclouds and broad river my wet face fire forged this earth and life — cormorants feed just offshore all glorious colour fading behind a city garbage collection truck and morning joggers behind this veil of cloud wet robes of beyond — a universe we cannot live in without our bubble of support creativity may be a gift to help make us human but manipulation is our ruin: sunrise reappears as a refrigerator truck of rendered meats humming with its chill at a hotel's backdoor crying and losing are luxury in this diseased profitic society life is all we have and sometimes living a good life is not enough — feel stumps of amputated v/ings and weep